


one hand to keep you warm

by Anonymous



Series: silos mcyt writing c: [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28559484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Techno stumbles back when they collide with a smalloof- he catches Phil's eyes again, looking far more panicked than he did a few seconds ago, arms full of sixteen-year-old.“Ohhh-kay,” Techno says, patting nervously at Tommy's shoulder. “Hello, TommyInnit.”“Mmmm - he-llo, Technoblade,” Tommy says, stressing each syllable just like he does on stream. He pulls back, smiling ear to ear, and lays both hands on Techno's shoulders. “You're taller than I thought you'd be.”“You're clingier than I thought you'd be,” Techno drawls. “And you're not six-three.”ORPhil has everyone over for Christmas. All of them seem to realize something's up with Tommy, but nobody can quite piece it together before he breaks.
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Tommyinnit & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: silos mcyt writing c: [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166825
Comments: 144
Kudos: 1464
Collections: Anonymous





	one hand to keep you warm

**Author's Note:**

> **(Age Regression is a completely SFW coping mechanism used for anxiety and stress relief. Don't insinuate this is sexual or romantic in any way - it's not.)**
> 
> hey mom look how hard i can post something anonymously!  
> apologies for anything ooc. ive been watching the four of them for a while but i still worry that a lot of this comes off wrong. based in streamer personas and nothing more.  
> enjoy c:

“Are either of you streaming?” Tommy asks. 

“No and no,” Phil says. “Hey, mate.”

“Gremlin,” Wilbur calls instead of a greeting. 

“The weirdest fucking just happened,” Tommy says, completely ignoring the jab. It must be a pretty big deal, then.

“Pray tell?” Phil asks, leaning back in his chair. 

“So Dream sent me a package, right?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Well he - the merch is really cool, by the way -”

“Send pictures -”

“You’ll see it on stream,” Tommy says. “But there’s like - he sent me something else.” 

“What else?” Wilbur asks. He sounds mildly interested, but altogether sidetracked - Phil hears him curse under his breath as he presumably dies in Valorant. 

Tommy laughs, dulled from his on-stream cackles. “Gonna turn on my camera,” he says. There’s the telltale sound of him adjusting his mic as Phil pulls up his own camera, opening discord. “Wilbur, get in here.” It takes a second to load, and there he is, squatting like a gargoyle. 

“Tommy,” Phil greets. 

“Mr. Minecraft,” Tommy returns with an incline of the head. He tugs on the chest of his hoodie, showing off some blurry insignia. “The Americans do their zippers backwards,” he says. “All fucked up ‘n shit.”

Phil laughs. “Maybe Dream did it on purpose.”

“Bit of a dick move, innit?” There’s a shuffle, a sigh, and then Wilbur’s camera turns on. “New setup looks good, big man.”

“Thank you, TommyInnit. You look stupid in that hoodie.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy says. “No, but - okay, Dream sends me this big fuckin’ package, right, and it’s got all this shit in it -” he shows off a water bottle and a couple of miscellaneous pieces of fabric - “and then there’s this special box, wrapped all different ‘n shit, and when I open it -”

He holds up, not so dramatically, a pack of pacifiers and a stuffed elephant baby toy. Phil takes a second to put the pieces together - and in that second, Wilbur shrieks with laughter to the point where he’s doubled over. 

“Holy shit!” he crows. “Holy shit!”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, and Phil can’t help the laughter that pours out of him at Tommy’s disgruntled face and Wilbur’s raucous cheering. “Fuck you!”

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!” Wilbur straightens, cooing, “aww, ickle Tommy got a new stuffie.”

“Shut up.” Tommy lets out a half-hearted, nervous giggle, face pinked around the edges. “What the fuck am I meant to do with this shit?”

“Throw it out,” Phil suggests. “It’s a gag gift, mate.”

“Well yeah, I know that,” Tommy says. “But, like -” he drops the pacifiers, grabbing at the stuffed animal with both hands until the fabric crinkles - “it’s brand new, innit? Wouldn’t that be sorta shitty?”

“Do you _really_ wanna keep a baby toy?” Wilbur asks, just a bit condescending. “Techno would never let you live it down. Tubbo neither, probably.” 

“I don’t wanna keep it!” Tommy argues, but there’s a flush to his cheeks that makes Wilbur clutch at his stomach. “It’s just - it’s fresh out the package!” 

Phil chuckles. “You can keep it if you want to, Tommy - nobody’s gonna give you shit for it.”

“Good thing I don’t want to keep it,” Tommy says bluntly. He’s picked the set of pacifiers back up again, twisting his lip as he toys with them. “Dream’s a proper dickhead.”

“He did send you all that merch,” Phil counters.

“He did!”

“Fuck you.” Tommy makes eye contact, face crumpled into a scowl. “Fuck both of you. Glad you thought it was funny, though - have a good night, fellas,” and then he’s gone. Phil stares at the outline left behind on the black of his computer for a second before Wilbur’s empty setup fills the screen - Tommy, clearly upset, holding a set of baby items in a white-knuckled grip. 

“Holy fucking shit!” comes Wilbur’s voice, and he shimmies back up into his chair, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Y’know what, I’m gonna say it - Dream is a funny motherfucker.”

“Very,” Phil agrees, but something twists in his gut. 

* * *

Tommy’s stream comes and goes with the regular fanfare. He’s got his own stream to tend to, of course, but he keeps Tommy’s channel pulled up on his second monitor just in case. Tommy shouts silently from the screen, chasing around Techno and Ghostbur respectively until he’s ending stream and sending his viewers off to Tubbo for safekeeping. Phil’s viewer count goes up a few thousand with an unofficial raid, and he ends the night a few hours later with a wide grin and significant progress on the NetherVoid. 

He gets maybe two posts down his Twitter timeline before he’s reminded of the absolutely baffling call from yesterday. Someone’s clipped Tommy talking about the package, motioning the cutout that Phil hadn’t noticed propped behind him. He lets it loop, listens to the obvious excitement in his voice - and thinks just a little bit more about the look on his face after Wilbur had poked fun at the gag gifts.

Something. . . Something had gone wrong, there. Couldn’t quite hit the nail on the head. Some sort of growly frustration is building up in him as he thinks about it, painted over a worrying sheen of guilt. 

Far too late for either of them to be up, Phil sends a message to one TommyInnit’s still glowing discord icon.

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _hey mate_

It takes maybe two minutes for Tommy to respond. 

**_TommyInnit  
_ ** _hey  
_ _why are u up  
_ _ur old you nned your sleep_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _fuck you_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _old_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _yeah  
_ _uh anyway, can I talk to you_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _oh shit  
_ _important things_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _only sorta_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _lay it on me big man_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _so  
_ _that package that Dream sent you yesterday_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _bloody hell  
_ _wilbur already made fun of me for it please dont_

Phil blinks - not exactly the response he’d been expecting. Maybe he should shoot Wilbur a message. He hesitates, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

**_TommyInnit  
_ ** _but i mean if your gonna just get it over with lmao_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _I’m not gonna make fun of you, mate_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _oh_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _why would I make fun of you what the fuck_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _bcuase youre old_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _motherfucker  
_ _and you’re a child what about it_

**_TommyInnit is typing . . ._ **

And then, nothing. 

That’s two. Two in a row. Phil sighs, staring at the unmoving chat, trying to decipher his next move. 

If Tommy is uncomfortable with the “baby” bits - if he really is, not just to make content - that’s an easy enough conversation. But Phil really can’t tell, and Tommy’s tone is indecipherable over text message. He resists the urge to start a call, wary of Kristin asleep in the room over and the horrifically late time on the clock. 

**_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _Sorry_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _its fine_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _is it_

A beat.

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _yes  
_ _is this what you wanted to talk about_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _sort of_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _okay_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _you just seemed really uncomfortable yesterdat  
_ _like when Will was laughing at you_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _sorry_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _no! don’t apologize  
_ _I just wanted to make sure that all the uhh  
_ _all of the “tommyinnit child” jokes were okay  
_ _like seriously_

**_TommyInnit is typing . . ._ **

**_TommyInnit  
_ ** _no yeah its fine  
_ _idrc  
_ _i was just kinda out of it yesterday_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _if you’re sure  
_ _and you do know Wilbur’s just joking, right?  
_ _it’s not like he thinks less of you or anything, he just thinks its funny_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _well it is funny so_

Phil sighs, dragging a hand down his face. Christ, its too late for this.

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _yeah  
_ _I’m here for you, you know. If you ever need to talk  
_ _Doesn’t matter what_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _thanks big man  
_ _nothing on the plate for now  
_ _appreciate it tho_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _if you’re sure_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _youre so anjnoying  
_ _im good i swear  
_ _your being all clingy and shit_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _they dont call me dadza for no reason  
_ _no but seriously. if you ever need anything, I'm here for you  
_ _not just in the sense of answering tts lol  
_ _just say the word and I’ll drive over there_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _thats cap  
_ _as sapnap would say  
_ _god i sound so american  
_ _remind me to never say that again_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _LMAO  
_ _what does that even mean_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _you are so old  
_ _you are so so old  
_ _its saying that youre lying basically_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _what  
_ _about coming and getting you?_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _yeah_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _well I’m not_

**_TommyInnit is typing . . ._ **

**_TommyInnit  
_ ** _okay_

Phil sighs.

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _maybe time for bed  
_ _?_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _you dont have to tell me to go to bed_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _I’m just worried about you_

 **_TommyInnit  
_ ** _dont be im good big man  
_ _goodnight philza minecraft_

Good. Thank fucking God, the kid definitely needs some sleep - he goes through the motions of shutting down his computer before he realizes that Tommy’s still typing. He watches the three dots roll on and off for about a minute before the message comes through. 

**_TommyInnit  
_ ** _and thank you for checking up on me  
_ _ill tell you if something doesnt sit right i swear_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _thank you Tommy  
_ _have a good night 🤗_

Tommy goes offline shortly thereafter. Phil sighs, shutting down his computer and leaving his thoughts to stew as he gets ready for bed.

He’s not a real dad. Tommy’s got perfectly good parents, who also happen to be perfectly good people; he’s met the both of them, and they both seem constantly at the ready to protect their son. It’s a good thing. Tommy deserves good parents, and he has them, and that’s that - and in an ideal world, that would be enough.

But streaming is a whole different ballpark. As much as he may play it up for his viewers, he really does care about the three of them, and he knows, intrinsically, that there are issues Tommy will have that he cannot go to his parents about. Issues that they won’t understand. 

Issues, he knows, that he will be the one to help with. 

He signed up for this. Twitch is his platform, and he uses it, and he knows how to operate online and hold an audience. Tommy signed up for it, too, but it’s hard to know what you’re getting into; shooting into popularity in such an unorthodox manner isn’t exactly easy to handle, even more so for a sixteen-year-old. They’re pressures that Phil has a grip on, though, to a degree at least better than Tommy’s parents. He only hopes that Tommy’s able to recognize when to ask for help.

Phil gives another sigh as he settles into bed, weary of Kristin’s sleeping figure beside him. At the very least, Tommy knows that Phil is there for him - and maybe that’s all that really matters. Worst comes to worst, he forces the kid into a corner and hounds him until he gets off his high horse. 

_Too late for this._ He wipes a hand down his face and pulls his comforter further up over his shoulders. They’ll make it work, he decides. Phil will make it work. 

* * *

Tommy seems positively ecstatic. He hops into his and Techno’s private VC with little fanfare and little warning. Techno doesn’t even realize, rambling on about his recent eye appointment as Tommy joins the call and gets himself situated. 

“Boys?” he hollers as soon as there’s a break in conversation. 

“Hey, mate,” Phil says right into his microphone. 

“Oh - hey, Tommy.” Techno sounds a bit disgruntled at the interruption, but that tends to be inevitable when talking to the kid.

“Big Men! Yeahhh, yeah - two days left! Two days.” 

“Someone’s excited,” Techno notes.

“Aren’t you?” there’s the noise of Tommy shifting his microphone stand. “Finally getting out of that shithole country.”

The meetup had been Wilbur’s idea, as most good things are. Logistics are still being figured, but two days time is exactly how long it is until Techno flies into Brighton.

“Very original,” Techno says. 

“Hey - maybe you’ll lose the accent while you’re here, eh?” 

Techno laughs. “Nah, nah - too far.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you, you fuckin’ - you’re so American, you know -” 

“You’re so annoyin’ - I’m gonna throw you when I see you -”

Phil sighs and settles in for a long, long call. Typically they’re all pretty tame off camera, but Tommy and Techno’s inherent need for argumentative, insultuous conversation never ends. Conversation bounces, though, and they all calm down into a comfortable ebb and flow. Phil tabs in to watch Tommy dick around on RDR2, while Techno makes absent commentary as he farms on Hypixel, even all these months later.

“I need a new horsie,” Tommy says. “This one’s all slow.”

“Did you say _horsie?_ ” Techno asks. “What are you, five?”

“It’s a good word, innit?” He sounds defensive, even to Phil’s less than apt ears. “Fine, if it matters all that much - I need a new horse, dickhead.”

“Steal,” Phil says. “Steal, now.”

“Illegal,” Tommy mumbles. “I am a good, good. . .” he trails off. “Good person.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“You’re so mean to me. Bad influ - influence.”

“Truly terrible,” Techno chimes in.

“I’m just saying - there’s no repercussions.”

Tommy doesn’t respond, maneuvering Arthur up and over a hillside. “No being mean,” he says. 

“Holy shit,” Techno says, feigning excitement. “Holy shit - the SMP is saved!”

Tommy giggles in such a childish way that Phil’s sure he’s heard wrong. “No, no - just here.” 

Techno goes silent at the same time as Phil. Tommy hums as he moves Arthur between trees; it almost covers the sound of Techno tuning into the screenshare.

“How are you gonna get a new horse?” Phil asks gently. 

Tommy hums, stalling Arthur at the foot of the hill. There’s a little village off to his left - Tommy turns towards it and starts walking. “Money.”

“Gonna buy one?” Techno asks, soft like Phil had been. Phil can almost hear the disbelief slipping into his tone just as he starts to feel it himself. 

“Mmhmm.” And then he says nothing else, continuing forward towards the town. 

Phil’s got a notification in under ten seconds.

 **_Technoblade  
_ ** _Uh  
_ _This is weird_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _yes  
_ _ummm_

Phil gnaws at the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. “Tom?”

“Mmhmm?”

“You feeling alright, mate?” 

Silence, just a hair too long to be unconcerning. “Sleepy,” Tommy mumbles, voice a bit muffled. 

**_Technoblade  
_ ** _“Sleepy”_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _yeah_

 **_Technoblade  
_ ** _Unusual_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _yeah_

“Just sleepy?” Phil asks, careful to keep his voice light. “Not, uh, sick or anything?”

Tommy ponders it a second. “Mm - nuh-uh,” he decides. “Good. Real - really happy.”

He’s really not sure what to say. He tunes back into Tommy’s gameplay, debating how to fix things as Tommy selects dialogue options with a bartender seemingly at random. 

“Tommy,” Techno says carefully, and he knows if he were in the room with Phil they'd be sharing some knowing eye-contact, “d’you mind turning on your camera?”

There’s a long-drawn beat as Arthur freezes onscreen. Something teeters on the edge of breaking; Phil raises his eyebrows, expectant, eyes flitting anywhere around his setup but into his camera. For once, he wishes Techno would make a stupid joke, break the seriousness - it feels like an ill-fitting glove over the VC. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says, suddenly sounding a lot more like himself. “Yeah, I do mind.” The broadcast closes; Phil’s left staring at two colored boxes and his own facecam. Whatever has been muffling Tommy’s speech is gone now, but there's some upset feeling leaking into his tone. “I think I'm heading out, boys - lovely chatting with you lot.”

“Uh - yeah, see you soon,” Phil says as cheerfully as possible. “Stay safe,” he murmurs as the leaving call sound plays.

There’s a measure of unbelieving silence as the interaction sets in. Techno’s the one to break it. “Well, that was uncomfortable.”

“Uh-huh.” Phil drags his hands down his face. “Christ - is this teen angst? Is that what they call this?” 

Techno hums. “Sure.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“Look, man - I’m not sure that my normal teenage nerd angst can compare to Tommy’s, when he’s British and dealing with it in front of a hundred and sixty thousand people. That’s, like, false equivalence.” 

Phil sighs, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “Maybe,” he says slowly, “maybe the meetup is a bad idea.”

“No, nonononono - I already bought the plane ticket, Philza, don’t do this to me,” Techno pleads, breaking off into a laugh. “But, seriously - I’m sure it’ll be fine. You’re bein’ paranoid, man. You just are. Those are the facts.” 

“Sure,” Phil says. “Yeah, no, you’re probably right.”

“When have I ever been wrong?” There’s a quiet tapping sound as Techno clicks away at Minecraft. “Besides - don’t think you could get Wilbur to shut it down, even by threatenin’ him.” 

And he’s right, too. They’ve taken precautions, made sure that everything is worked out - Wilbur seemed to vibrate in his seat whenever it was brought up, discussing at length the intensive timeline of streams, rest, and general “together time” that he’d organized. 

“And,” Techno continues, “Tommy’s always a little weird when he’s excited.” 

Right again. MCC, before the vlog - he’s always been a bit unpredictable, even if this particular subset of Tommy personality is one that Phil’s never seen before. “Yeah - yeah. Thanks, Techno.”

“You’re welcome,” Techno says, and Phil can hear his grin. “Uh, movin’ on - can’t believe that my next face reveal is gonna be for TommyInnit’s vlog.” 

“Win some, lose some,” Phil says easily. “You could always have him edit it out, if you wanted.”

“Not worth it. Gotta happen eventually, and at least it’s Tommy and not VidCon or somethin’.” 

“VidCon,” Phil says with a wince. “Oh, what could have been at VidCon.” 

“Twitter,” Techno says with a short noise of horror. “God - can’t even imagine.”

“For the best, then,” Phil says.

Techno snorts. “Definitely for the best.”

* * *

**_Technoblade  
_ ** _Someone help  
_ _@Ph1LzA  
_ _@Ph1LzA  
_ _@Ph1LzA  
_ _@Ph1LzA  
_ _@Ph1LzA  
_ _Helloooooo_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _where are you mate_

 **_Technoblade  
_ ** _I don’t know  
_ _High_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _what  
_ _Techno??_

 **_Technoblade  
_ ** _High Street  
_ _Edward?  
_ _Help_

“What the fuck?” Wilbur asks, reading over his shoulder. “He’s joking, right?”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Phil says. “Can you go get him?”

“I can,” Tommy offers instantly. 

“Nope,” Phil and Wilbur say at the same time. “You can stay here, with me, or go with Will -” a pointed glance - “to go get Techno.”

“Got it,” Wilbur says, grabbing his keys off of the table and hurrying out of the cafe. Tommy stares after him, stricken, but ultimately doesn't follow.

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _stay there, Will’s coming to get you_

 **_Technoblade  
_ ** _Embarrassing  
_ _o7_

Tommy groans, slumping against the table face-first. “You’re both so annoyingggg,” he whines into the wood. Phil laughs and pats the top of his head.

“Sorry, mate, but I don’t think your folks would be very happy if we let you wander around Brighton on your own.”

Tommy gives a whine but doesn’t say anything else, turning a little and propping his phone up against the table. Phil smiles fondly at him, letting his hand rest on the back of the kid’s head, running his thumb across the nape of his neck and brushing his fingers over the curls there. 

“You need a haircut, kiddo,” Phil says. The name slips out without him even realizing it, and Tommy exhales against a heavy tremor.

“Fuck you,” he mumbles. Phil laughs and goes back to scrolling on his phone while they wait for Will and Techno to arrive. 

Brighton is decidedly more shit in the middle of winter. Not even the knowledge that they’re all together can properly light the place up in all of its wintry, covid-decked glory. Techno had flown in yesterday, holing up in some hotel in Hove to sleep off the jet lag before meeting them near the Marina today. Then it’s off to the Watson’s for a half-week of secret filming, surprise streams, and general dipshittery.

Kristin was expectedly excited to have people in the house. “They’re lovely boys,” she had said, wrapping a garland around the banister. “It’ll be nice to have another American in the house. Bet you Tommy’s gotten taller.”

“Ten quid he didn’t,” Phil said. “Er, no - ten quid his posture doesn’t even make it noticeable.”

And now they’re here, tucked into the corner booth of some cozy cafe as it absolutely pisses it down outside. Tommy’s got his coat draped around his shoulders, arms out of the sleeves, propping his head up. Phil stirs his coffee and thumbs through Tommy’s hair again, a small smile cracking his face when Tommy gives a shaky, contented sigh and his shoulders relax. 

He’s abnormally quiet today. Or maybe he just was in person - Phil’s not sure. Their last meetup feels like forever ago, and the knowledge that Techno would be joining them hadn’t been present. Nervous, maybe, Phil decides. It’s a good enough explanation for the time being, and should his silence persist, Phil can always ask him about it later. 

It's another ten minutes before they show face. Phil orders three more coffees and a hot chocolate, despite Tommy's weak protests. He still sips it while they wait, pushing at the melting marshmallows with the tip of his finger.

“Are those two nerds I see?” comes Techno's voice, and when Phil turns he catches the eyes of a masked, lanky young man with his arm hooked in Wilbur's.

“Big man!” Tommy all but hollers, barrelling out of the booth and throwing himself at Techno. Techno stumbles back when they collide with a small _oof_ \- he catches Phil's eyes again, looking far more panicked than he did a few seconds ago, arms full of sixteen-year-old. Phil can't help but cackle, pulling himself out of the booth and stretching his arms over his head.

“Ohhh-kay,” Techno says, patting nervously at Tommy's shoulder. “Hello, TommyInnit.” 

“Mmmm - he-llo, Technoblade,” Tommy says, stressing each syllable just like he does on stream. He pulls back, smiling ear to ear, and lays both hands on Techno's shoulders. “You're taller than I thought you'd be.”

“You're clingier than I thought you'd be,” Techno drawls. “And you're not six-three.”

Wilbur, previously watching with nothing more than a wide grin, bursts into unrestrained laughter. “I told you!”

“Motherfucker,” Tommy says through a creeping blush and a round of giggles. “I actually am, I actually am - my posture’s just shit.”

“Same difference,” Techno huffs, but his eyes are crinkled over the edge of his mask. “Phil,” he greets, shrugging off Tommy's hands. 

“Hey mate,” Phil says, offering a fist bump. Techno seems relieved at the lesser contact and accepts it as gracefully as one can. “Glad you made it okay.”

“No thanks to me,” Wilbur says. 

“Hey - it's not _my_ fault I got lost -”

“It definitely is,” Wilbur says. He gestures to the booth rather unceremoniously, and they all cram in. “Did you get us coffees?”

“What kinda shithead would I be if I didn't?” Phil asks. 

Wilbur blinks at him, surprised. “Thanks, Phil,” he says, peeling his mask off and snagging one of the mugs. 

“It's no big deal,” Phil insists. He cringes when Wilbur practically overflows the thing with creamer. “Oh, Jesus Christ, mate -”

“You're gross,” Wilbur decides. “Both - all of you.”

“Nnnope,” Techno says, pulling his mask down under his chin and taking a sip of his coffee black. “You're just a child.”

“Well - at least it's coffee and not hot chocolate,” Phil says, nudging Tommy with his shoulder. 

“Oh, what the fuck, man,” Tommy huffs. “That's fucked up - I told you not to buy me it -”

“I think you'd explode if you had any caffeine -”

“You fucker -”

“ - sugar's bad enough as is -”

“I hate you all,” Tommy says with finality, sounding abhorrently like a whiny child. He realizes it, too, flushing pink again. “You are all so mean to me.”

“Not mean if it's true,” Techno says.

Wilbur reaches over and ruffles his hair until Tommy nearly bites his hand off. “Not mean if you deserve it!” 

* * *

Streaming is, as always, a lot of fucking fun. 

Wilbur and Tommy crowd in behind him on his setup. Chat is absolutely ecstatic - he’s rocking up to 150k as soon as everyone’s tweets go out, and Techno makes snide comments from out of the camera. In traditional Wilbur Soot style, they do a YLYL. Donations roll in faster than he thought possible. 

“Rigged!” Techno bellows, batting at Wilbur’s shoulder. Chat explodes when his hand comes into frame. “This is - this is absolutely rigged!”

“You’re shit,” Tommy singsongs, stifling laughter. Phil turns to him, levels a perfectly unfeeling stare, and just grins as Tommy finally breaks into breathless, full-bodied cackles.

For about an hour and a half they're consistent; the videos are funny, but it tends to be the laughter of one another that sacks them all. Hysterics and joy alike are contagious, and Phil feels undoubtedly airy with the three of them crowded close. His numbers are skyrocketing, his chat is explosive and objectively funny, his friends - his _boys_ \- are with him and undoubtedly happy.

Of course, all good things must end. They've just hit two hours when the videos really start to drag; Wilbur boos and shittalks in his stupid “Australian” accent any chance he can get, and Tommy's taken to explosive bouts of cursing. Phil watches from the corner of his eye as Techno holes himself up in the spare chair, clearly exhausted socially and physically. He's fished his phone from his pocket by the time Phil finally catches his eye, asking wellness with a single quirked eyebrow; Techno only shakes his head, points to his phone, and flashes an ‘OK’ sign. He'll take it, he decides, and goes back to watching whatever shit still remains in the donation queue. 

Tommy, however, cannot content himself to this reality. After more than a few complaints of boredom, he jabs Wilbur in the side, ignores his shout of pain and furiousness, and stares around at the two of them left for his next victim.

Phil’s eyes go wide as Tommy meets them and he holds up his hands to keep him back. Bongo Cat plays yet again, somehow slipped through his mod’s efforts. “Don't even fuckin’ think about it.”

“Mmmmm,” Tommy shuffles until he's on his knees in the desk chair, swatting towards Phil's shoulder, “mmmm, gonna - feeling like a gremlin, you can't fuckin’ stop me -”

“Tommy I swear to Christ -”

“Mmmmmmmmm -”

“Objects that I have shoved up my arse!” Wilbur shouts with the clip, jabbing at Tommy with his elbow. “We meet again!” 

“Don't fuckin’ hit me, prick,” Tommy says, attention shifting instantly. “I'll, I'm gonna - _mmmmmmm_ \- wait, what the fuck is that?”

“What?” Wilbur and Phil say together, turning away from the screen. 

“Techno,” Tommy says as explanation. He leans up out of his chair, peeking out of frame to leer over Techno's hands. Techno leans back a bit further, clearly sheepish about the closeness. “What do you have?”

“Anxiety, Tommy,” Techno deadpans, and that’s the straw that breaks the back of Wilbur’s camel. He doubles over in full-bellied chuckles as Techno continues. “And ADHD. And a lot of subscribers - no college degree, though -”

“You’re so fuckin’ stupid.” Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose before he’s grabbing for Techno’s hands. Techno’s wrenched to his feet, forearms dragged into frame as Tommy wrestles something from between his fingers. 

“What the heck,” Techno says, standing dumbfounded as Tommy drops his hands. 

“Wanted to see it,” Tommy says helpfully. Phil leans over, trying to get a better look. 

“You could have just asked!” Techno says, voice pitching up in exasperation. Tommy doesn’t answer, cradling the thing in both hands. It’s a colorful coil of plastic - when Tommy pulls on it, it unravels into a curly little pile. “It’s literally just a fidget toy.”

“I’m stealing this,” Tommy says, eyes wide. Someone’s donated Giga Pudding - the three of them look up for about half a second before sighing, Tommy still engrossed in the little tangle of plastic. “This is mine now.”

“You steal so much shit from me,” Techno grumbles, but he doesn’t object, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. Chat erupts in chants of _TECHNOSWEAR._

“Look at this, chat,” Tommy says, holding the thing up to the camera with both hands. It’s only for half a second, but none of them miss the fumbling tremble of his hands. “All curly and shit. It’s like - it’s like drugs fo’ yo’ hands.” 

There's a short-lived spam of _PogChamp’s_ in response (with enough _POGCHAMP’s_ to make Phil wince); Tommy nods, contented, and sits back in his chair with his knees almost to his chest. He toys with the thing in both hands, still looking up at the screen.

The energy undeniably fizzles after that; Tommy's quieter, turning more and more in on himself the longer the stream continues. Wilbur gets sick of the accent bit by the time Jump in the Cadillac comes through again, and it's very soon after that Phil decides to wrap it up. They're one-half down, and, if Phil's draining energy is any indication, rapidly losing a third.

Wilbur inevitably ends the stream by leaning over Phil and forcing him back, pressing the button himself, and reprimanding chat to “do better next time”. The offline chat is hastily redirected to an exhausted but endlessly appreciative Minx; all four of them visibly deflate as soon as the broadcast ends, Techno practically melting out of his chair. 

“I really don’t know how y’all do it,” he mutters into his hoodie. “I wasn’t even on camera and that was exhaustin’.”

“You get used to it,” Wilbur says. 

There's a lapse of silence; Phil cracks his knuckles as the room sighs sleepily. “Good stream. Lots of fun, you guys.”

“Good stream,” Wilbur agrees. “Can't wait to like your highlights video.”

“The beast of Twitter is satiated,” Techno pipes up, unpacking himself slowly from his chair. “At least for a few weeks.”

No-one misses the empty space for a quip; three sets of eyes land on Tommy, who's still staring wide-eyed at his own hands. He's relaxed forward, chin resting on his knees.

Techno seems to remember himself. He stands, holding out a hand. “Can I have that back?” Tommy doesn't answer, wide-eyed with his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he works to wind the plastic back into a coil. Techno shifts impatiently, locking eyes with Phil for an exasperated and surprisingly concerned half-second. “Tommy?”

“Huh?” He looks up from the toy instantly, squeezing it in a tight fist. “Oh, yeah - sorry, sorry -” he drops it back into Techno’s hand, blinking dazedly.

Techno frowns at him. “You good, man?”

Tommy gives a burble of astounded laughter. “What the fuck?”

Techno shrugs. “Jeez, sorry.” He shakes out the plastic, frown deepening as he wipes it against his jeans. “Your hands are sweaty.”

“Cause I'm so strong.”

Techno scoffs. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He shoots Phil a wide-eyed look again but says nothing more as he stretches and shuffles out of the office. Tommy does a quick survey of the room before hopping off his chair and following him, shouting something about dinner. 

Wilbur, however, doesn't move, toying with his hair as he stares off into space. Phil only goes on closing out his streamlabs and other miscellaneous windows. He's shutting down his PC by the time Wilbur speaks.

“Strange.” He props his head up on his hand, fist beneath his chin. “Very, very strange.”

For a moment, Phil can't tell if he's inviting conversation or just thinking aloud. He ultimately decides on a shrug. “Bad attention span. Happens to the best of us.”

“Acting a bit loopy, don't you think?” He sighs and plays with his hair again. “I just - I dunno. Known him a year and a while, never seen him like this.”

Phil hums, brow furrowing. “He's growing up, Will. Kids - kids do that.”

“Ah - there it is! Exactly what I don't want to hear, Philza Minecraft, you've hit the nail on the head.”

Phil's a bit startled by the sudden burst of energy. Wilbur laughs sadly before continuing, “I just don't want him to be unhappy, y’know?”

“I don't think he is, mate.” And he's not lying, either. “I think he's just stressed.”

Wilbur shrugs. “Basically the same thing.”

“I guess.”

“I'm -” he swallows, trying to find the right words. “I'm really proud of him, truly. He's grown so much these past couple months, it's really just incredible - but I don't want it, y’know. Killing him.”

Phil hums, recalling the deep lines of Wilbur's face as Tommy left long bouts of silence between donations on today's stream. He suddenly feels guilty, failing to make sure he was okay. “We should have ended stream earlier.”

Wilbur laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, we should have.” He sighs, standing and popping his back. “C'mon - we should probably go stop them before they burn your house down.”

* * *

**_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _hey mate_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _hey phil :D  
_ _whats up  
_ _?_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _have you talked to Tommy recently?_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _uhhhhh  
_ _not sence we streamed  
_ _why isjt he with you?_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _yeah  
_ _he’s just been acting a bit off, is all  
_ _I didn’t know if you knew anything about it?_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _uhhhhhhh  
_ _“off’ how_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _just a little spacey I guess_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _oh yeah  
_ _i saw the ylyl  
_ _very funny btw_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _Yeah  
_ _he's been a lot spacier since then, I think? definitely quieter  
_ _we both know a quiet Tommy is a bad thing  
_ _know anything?  
_ _Tubbo?_

**_Tubbo is typing . . ._ **

**_Tubbo  
_ ** _okay so like  
_ _i dont think he would want me too tell you  
_ _because he seemed really imbarassed about it_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _that’s okay  
_ _just as long as he’s okay_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _Dadza real PogU  
_ _he’s fine i thinkk? kist stressed  
_ _just*_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _school?_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _things in general  
_ _just ask him about it im sure he’ll tell you  
_ _but uhhh  
_ _just treat him theway he’s acting  
_ _like  
_ _age wise_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _what on earth does thatmean_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _it means hes stressed  
_ _he’s like  
_ _he’s fine  
_ _well as fine as he can be  
_ _and i know theres not even a year between us so i dont really have a leg to stand on here  
_ _but hes growing up really fast  
_ _especially considering streaming and evrything  
_ _but i think he’s doing allright managing it  
_ _he has coping meckanisms  
_ _Phil?_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _still here! Sorry  
_ _just thinking_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _okay  
_ _your not gonna get much out of him without pressing  
_ _he’ll come to you 👍  
_ _just be nice and have an open mind  
_ _or else there may be a devestating surprise axident in your future :)_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _is that a threat_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _just something to keep in mind :)  
_ _he’s my best friend philza minecraft_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _okay 😂  
_ _Thank you for the help, Tubbo_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _:D_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _how have your holidays been?_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _pretty good!!!!  
_ _have a couple of streams planned that im excited for  
_ _otherwise spending time with the fam_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _glad to hear it :)_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _ohwwait  
_ _while your here  
_ _do you want to play tekkit sometime this week  
_ _???_

 **_Ph1LzA  
_ ** _it’ll have to be after everyone goes home  
_ _which issssss  
_ _two days  
_ _but yeah! I’d love to 🤗_

 **_Tubbo  
_ ** _awesome :D_

* * *

Kristin suggests a movie. 

“There’s not much going on outside,” she says, curled into the corner of the couch with her kindle in her lap. “Besides, Techno’s gotta be exhausted. It might be nice to just have a day in.”

Phil contemplates it as he pours himself coffee. The house is cold today - it’s not quite snowing out, but the earth is slushy and the rain freezes when it hits the ground. Not exactly a good day for travel. Not many of them stream on Saturday’s anyway, and even if they were, Phil’s setup is the only one within reasonable distance. Nowhere to go - it’s the best bet, and Kristin’s right that they deserve a day off. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Phil decides. He leaves the coffee to brew and settles beside her on the couch, flicking through his phone as Phil’s ever growing army trickles into the living room. 

Wilbur shows up first, rubbing at his eyes and fussing his hair over his forehead. “Nice bedhead,” Kristin muses, and Wilbur gives her the finger as he putters around the kitchen. 

“Your coffee sucks,” he mutters, settling into the armchair with his legs thrown over the side. His mug has a hardcore heart on the side.

“You’re the one drinking it.”

“You’re the one buying it,” Wilbur counters. He blinks away his dreariness, tugging his long sleeves down from his elbows. “What’s the plan for today?”

“Too shitty out to do much,” Phil says, shrugging in the direction of the window. The sky’s a perfect, roiling white, casting the morning in a spiderweb silver. “Wanted to stay home, watch a movie. Let the boys sleep in.” 

“Lads on tour,” Wilbur mutters. “Lads - lads in bed.”

Phil laughs, high and wheezing. “Drink your coffee, you’re - just the opposite of coherent.” Wilbur only hums at him, reaching for the remote on the end table and flicking on the news. 

It’s Techno that comes down next, wrapped in a hoodie and looking entirely unamused. He skips the coffee, grabbing a glass and filling it at the sink before curling unceremoniously in the corner of the love seat. 

“Morning,” Phil says, chipper just for the hell of it. Techno grunts, sipping at the water.

“Jetlag finally catching up?” Kristin asks. 

“You’re my only solace,” Techno grumbles. “All’a these British fucks.” 

“We gotta stick together,” she agrees. “They’re overrunning the house.”

“We’re literally in Britain! What the fuck do you mean!” Techno only laughs at him, shooting Kristin a halfhearted thumbs up. “Why did I ever invite you over?”

“It’s ‘cause I’m just so cool,” Techno says. He squints in Phil’s direction - Phil realizes belatedly that he’s left his glasses upstairs. “Listen - Phil - I don’t care how many superchats you offer, I’m not leavin’ the house today. Not happenin’.”

“Lucky you, we’re staying in,” Phil confirms. Techno nods and shifts, drawing his arms closer to his body. “Are you cold?” 

“Not too bad. It ain’t California, that’s for sure.” 

Phil stretches his legs out and goes to light the fireplace, snagging a lighter from the mantle. “What time is it?”

“Ehhh - almost noon,” Wilbur answers. 

Phil hums, flicking the lighter against the log set. “I’ll go wake up Tommy - pick a place to order in from.” 

“Lunch,” Techno cheers half-heartedly. Phil laughs, drops the lighter back on the mantle, and makes his way to and up the stairs. The window at the landing makes the dark wood of the floors seem almost wet from the white light, setting the whole of the stairway in snowy ambiance. He does his best to ignore the creaks in the floorboards as he crosses the hall.

“Hey, Tom? You awake?” He knocks gently on the door, hoping that the kid was just in bed on his phone and not actually asleep. He can’t imagine how fucked his sleep schedule would be if he were still passed out. 

“Mmhm,” Tommy hums, loud enough to be heard through the door. It’s a bit of an uncharacteristic answer, if he thinks about it. He gently pushes the door open and has to blink for a second.

“Tommy?” he asks, and Tommy jumps about a foot in the air, crumbling into a heap on the bed.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he asks, hiding his hands behind his back. 

“What were you doing?” Tommy freezes, adopting the “guilty puppy” look smoothly and without flaw. “Wait - was that the thing Dream gave you?”

“No,” Tommy says instantly. 

“Uh - yeah, it definitely was,” Phil says. “The little elephant.”

“No,” Tommy says again. “And - and what would it matter, anyway?”

Phil blinks at him owlishly. “It doesn’t,” he says slowly. “That’s why I’m confused about why you’re hiding it.”

What results is a bizarre and drawn-out staredown. Tommy looks at him, pinked in embarrassment but defiant all the way, and slowly pulls his hands from behind his back. The little elephant crinkles in his fingers. Phil stares back at him, eyebrows raised and almost expectant.

“Okay, go,” Tommy says, and it's like all of his strings have snapped in an instant; he curls in on himself, cupping the little thing in his lap. “Take the piss outta me, Philza Minecraft.”

And he does: a short, bewildered coil of laughter. “Tom. I'm gonna make fun of you, mate.”

He's quiet for a second. “This is stupid,” Tommy announces. “You're a dickhead.”

“You're getting all defensive,” Phil says. “I promise I'm not attacking you. It’s -” he struggles a bit for his words, and Tommy curls a bit more around himself - “it’s okay to like childish things, mate. Nobody’s judging you.” 

“I don’t,” Tommy says shortly, softly, staring down at the stuffed animal in his hands. He squeezes it - the crinkle of the fabric seems to echo around the room. 

“Okay,” Phil says easily. “It’s okay if you do, though.”

Tommy hums, gaze unmoving. “Phil,” he says quietly, “you said I could tell you anything?”

“Anything at all,” Phil affirms, and suddenly the world seems a lot smaller, a lot tighter knit. He leans carefully against the doorframe, dragging a hand down the wood, and studies the curve of Tommy’s shoulders. “I’m here for you, kiddo.” 

Tommy blinks. Hard. He shakes his head, flexes his fingers, goes on blinking like he’s trying to shake himself out of a trance - and crinkles the toy one more time before he stuffs it haphazardly back into his bag. “There’s - thanks,” he says, and each of the syllables come out rounded and soft. “Sorry. Thanks, don’t - don’t tell anyone about that.” He kicks at the bag with the toe of one socked foot. 

“Of course not,” Phil says. He smiles as encouragingly as he can at Tommy’s twitchy, tight-lipped expression. “We’re gonna do lunch - do you wanna come down and watch a movie with us?”

Slowly Tommy nods, pulls his hoodie tighter around his shoulders, and lets Phil usher him downstairs. A tremor runs down his spine when Phil puts a guiding hand on his lower back. Seating arrangements have changed, somehow - Wilbur’s stolen his spot on the couch, and Techno’s swapped for the armchair. 

“You’re the worst,” he hollers to Wilbur. 

“You love me,” Wilbur says, not unaffectionately. “C’mere,” he says, nodding to Tommy and patting the spot between him and Kristin. Tommy sniffs, straightens, and all but collapses into the space. 

“Fucker,” Wilbur says, trying in vain to pull his legs out from under Tommy’s slumped form. Tommy only grumbles at him, kicking out at his thigh. “Boy, somebody’s grumpy. Not enough sleep for the baby?”

Tommy blinks, splutters, and clenches his hands together, turning pink. “I’m not a fuckin’ baby,” he says, sounding insulted. Phil reaches around him to snag a blanket off the back of the couch. “And I’m not _grumpy._ You’re just a bitch. Long fuckin’ legs.” 

“Sounds like something a grumpy baby would say,” Techno says entirely unhelpfully. 

“I’m going to complain, now,” Tommy announces, “very, very loudly.” 

Someone decides on _Infinity War_. Doordash comes in clutch and they’ve got sandwiches within the hour, holding paper plates in their laps as the movie plays on. Tommy and Wilbur cheer at the action sequences, Kristin asks questions at all of the wrong moments, and Techno throws crisps at the screen whenever Chris Evans appears. 

Nobody cries when it ends but the mood is decidedly dampened. Endgame doesn't come up once in discussion of what to watch next, and when Kristin suggests a holiday movie it's pretty unanimously decided that that would be best. Tommy is remarkably silent, as is consistent with his behavior this week. Not for lack of trying. He has no objections as Techno picks Rudolph from the list. Phil stretches, getting up from the couch to go refill his drink.

Techno’s trying to hide his snickers when Phil comes back into the room. He shoots him a strange look, to which Techno only looks up from his phone and points a long finger in the direction of the couch - oh. 

“Help,” Wilbur grits, gesturing stiffly down at his lap. Tommy’s curled into his side, head slipping down Wilbur’s chest - both of his arms are held close to his ribcage, hands covering the bottom half of his face. 

He’s completely asleep, for sure. At four PM. Phil wracks his brain - he really has no idea what’s going on - and Wilbur hisses at him again, something desperate about “what the fuck do I do?”

“You hold still so I can get Twitter likes,” Techno deadpans, and Wilbur looks about ready to jump off the couch and strangle him for it. 

“You bastard,” he breathes, full of tension, and Techno cackles. 

“Anythin’ for the clout,” he says, but he puts his phone down without any complaint. The room falls silent again, all eyes on the catlike curl that is TommyInnit’s sleeping shoulders. 

“Just let him sleep,” Kristin says eventually. “He clearly needs it.” Wilbur’s brow furrows. 

“I’m worried about him,” he hisses. “He’s been acting weird all week.”

Techno shifts a little uncomfortably. “I thought he might just be quieter in person.”

Phil, Wilbur, and Kristin all shake their heads. Rudolph continues playing on the TV, long forgotten - everyone watches Tommy shift closer to Wilbur in his sleep, drawing his knees closer to his chest. _Just treat him the way he’s acting, age wise,_ Tubbo had said, and there’s a weird, sneaking suspicion that wraps tight around his heart as he grabs his blanket from the loveseat and drapes it carefully over Tommy's shoulders and Wilbur's legs.

“Gee, thanks,” Wilbur whispers. “Now I'm really stuck.”

“Maybe you should nap, too, if you're gonna keep being an asshole,” Phil says. Wilbur raises his hands placatingly before settling one of his arms around the curl of Tommy's side. The picture of the two of them curled together on his couch makes him feel dreadfully warmed, crushing the air out of his lungs for an instant as he’s flooded with affection. As much as Techno may have been joking, it’s really something he wouldn’t mind having a photo of. 

He sits back on the loveseat, legs drawn up beneath him, and gives the two of them one last fond glance. From the new position, Phil can just barely see Tommy’s thumb slipped into his mouth. 

He blinks a few times. He doesn't think anybody else has noticed; when he looks up, he locks eyes with Kristin, who shoots him a knowing, fond smile. He grins back at her as cheerfully as possible and pulls his phone from his pocket.

There are, admittedly, a lot of options. He debates and ultimately decides against pressing Tubbo for more info; an ask forum would probably get him killed; pressing Tommy's parents would likely leave him stepping in where he shouldn't be. _Google, then,_ eyeing Tommy's sleeping face, his hands pressed beneath his nose, Wilbur's arm curved around his middle. 

After a numerous few results about stopping adult thumb-sucking (which were, frankly, embarrassing to wade through) and more than a few looks around child help pages, the only conclusion he can come to is that Tommy's picked up a comforting habit from childhood to soothe his stress.

It raises a few more questions than it answers. Of course, Tommy's stressed - Phil would be more concerned if he were handling his fame and everything that followed it flawlessly - but for all of Tommy's discomfort with childhood and insistence against any coddling, Phil's pretty sure that he's gone a bit off track. His search results come up the same, no matter how he phrases it, and he clicks into one of the websites with a disconnected sort of interest.

Age regression is a term he's only vaguely aware of. It stirs some uncomfortable pot of sexual implications in the back of his mind, though the page insists otherwise; but the furthest it really connects is with thumb-sucking, while the rest of it is so incredibly opposite of the Tommy he knows and, to be honest, just a little bit weird. Whatever ‘littlespace’ may or may not be, he's almost certain it's not what he was looking for. 

Almost.

Phil's brow furrows as he contemplates it all. Tommy is loud, fervently against his own youth, and far too much of a mixed bag for Phil to be sure of anything. He scrolls a bit further, reads instead of skims. And, well - Tommy does have a physical reaction to nicknames. Concerningly bad at dealing with his problems but more than happy to ask for help from any authority -

Phil stops that train right there. Most importantly, it’s none of his fucking business. Tommy can get up to whatever he wants, so long as it's not drugs or alcohol or otherwise illegal - and Tommy is certainly smart enough to know who he can come to. No, no - it's far more likely for the kid to just be stressed. Tommy's always been quiet when he's nervous, and Techno's arrival is more than enough to spur that tittering silence. Tommy may be well-versed in the internet, but this feels entirely too out of depth to be something he knows about.

Yes, he decides, that works. He shuts his phone with a huff of disappointment and a small, disgusted feeling of the voyeuristic variety, and watches Donner smear more coal on Rudolph's nose.

* * *

“He-llo, Philza Minecraft,” Tommy says boisterously, all but shoving the camera in his face. 

Phil laughs. “Hello Tommy,” he says. He glances down at the bowl he's currently kneading; Tommy follows with the camera. “Gingerbread.”

“YEAAHHH!” Tommy whoops, angling the camera back up to Phil's face. “Gingerbread!”

“Better than Tubbo makes it,” Phil says through a laugh. “Tubbo, when you see this - that was a fuckin’ disaster.”

Tommy leaves the camera recording on the counter as they continue baking, generally being more of a nuisance than helping. Phil has to stop him from shoving a whole fistful of dough into his mouth, and then has to keep Wilbur from stealing more for him. They both grin and cackle like madmen.

Techno and Kristin dance around the three of them, spouting off something decisive about “oven rotation” while shuffling dishes in and out. Dinner is something that was unanimously decided to be private, but prep is free game - and Phil's pretty sure that Tommy's Christmas Vlog is going to be chocked full of antagonizing anyone trying to actually operate the kitchen.

The kid himself seems much more energetic today. Phil’s certainly relieved at the upturn in attitude, and he can tell that the rest of them are, too - Wilbur seems far more outgoing when he has someone to bounce off of, and Techno, while still as socially awkward as usual, is visibly more willing to participate in casual conversation when Tommy’s encouraging him. The next few hours feel homey and comfortable in a way that Phil can’t really describe. All of them are family, all of them are friends, and all of them are _here_. 

He’s gotta be the luckiest man alive. 

Surprisingly edible dinner and even more surprisingly delicious dessert leaves the five of them thrown about the kitchen before their gift exchange. Wilbur's been nursing a rather tall glass of wine since early on in the night; he's still got it in his hand, propped against the counter and telling loudly some story or another. Techno's slumped over the kitchen island, holding his head in his hands and giving enthusiastic affirmation at any breaks in Wilbur's unending chatter. Tommy's sat on the counter, slowly picking away at a dish of room temperature mashed potatoes with his fingers and making low, pleasant conversation with a not-so-sober Kristin. Phil finds himself staring around at the four of them, packed into his cozy little kitchen on the night of their effective Christmas dinner, and feeling practically untouchable.

Kristin claps her hands together and grabs Phil’s upper arm. “You wanna deliver gifts?”

“What, right now?”

“I don't see why not,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“Wait,” Tommy interjects, loud enough to get the attention of the other two. “Wait, wait - I thought we weren't doing gifts.”

“We're doing gifts?” Techno asks, eyes wide.

Phil can feel himself turning a bit red. “I mean - not really? Just a little something from us.”

“Oh, what the fuck,” Wilbur says. “Well, there goes my plans.”

“You too?” Tommy asks. “You're joking, right?”

Wilbur shakes his head, grinning. “You can't _not_ open gifts on Christmas. I thought it'd be a nice surprise.”

“This is the worst day of my life,” Tommy decides.

“Well, fuck,” Techno says shortly, and though they’ve all heard him curse more times than they can count it still seems to have come out of nowhere. 

Wilbur gives a high cackle, leaning against the counter and shooing Phil with one hand. “Alright, Phil, lay it on us.”

“Am I Santa?” Phil asks with a wheezing laugh. “Is that - did you lot decide that I'm Santa?”

“San - Sant-za,” Wilbur says, and gives an honest to God giggle. “Santza! Bring us the boxes, old man!”

“Boxes, boxes, _boxes_ -” Kristin's chant is cut off by an uproarious cheer from Wilbur as Phil tosses a package into his lap. He tears into it without even waiting, not that anybody cares. 

“From you?” he asks, eyes boring into Phil’s as he continues ripping at the paper. 

“Me and Kris, yeah.” He hands matching sized parcels to Tommy and Techno. “They're basically the same - probably best to open ‘em all at the same time.”

“Aw, Phil,” Wilbur says, fishing the ornament out of the box and turning it in his fingers. He peeks at the box Techno’s forcing open. “Did you hand-make these?”

“Kristin's idea,” he says, wrapping an arm around her waist as she beams. “They're not very good - real stereotypical - but we tried.”

“It's perfect,” Wilbur says quietly, turning around the glass casing in his fingers. More glitter falls down around the tiny guitar that he's stuck to the bottom of the bulb. “I love it, really. Thank you, Phil.”

“What is this?” Tommy asks, squinting down at the tiny car in his own ornament. “You've given me a hot wheels, Philza Minecraft.”

Kristin near doubles over in laughter; Phil has to rescue her wine glass. “It’s a Cadillac,” she says, breathless and giggly. Tommy's face all but collapses in on itself as Techno breaks into similarly breathless cackles.

“You lot are just the worst,” Tommy says, carefully setting the ornament down on the counter. “Thanks, Phil.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Techno agrees, grinning down at the golden crown inside his ornament. 

“Well, I’m glad that you like them,” Phil says gently, unable to suppress the grin that stretches across his face. “Just a little something to - to hold onto, I guess.”

“Very sweet, Philza Minecraft, very sappy.” Tommy props his chin up on his hands, leering across the counter. “Making the Twitter stans go nuts, that’s your - that’s your specialty, that’s your _thing_ , innit, especially with the holidays -”

“I got you somethin’ too,” Techno announces duly, cutting off Tommy’s half-hearted filler, “but it wasn’t supposed to be a Christmas present so it’s not wrapped and I don’t have anythin’ for the rest of you.”

“. . . Are you talking to me?” Tommy asks, jutting his thumb into his chest. 

Techno actually blushes, giving a short nod. “I was trying to get you to shut up,” he mutters as explanation, digging through the pockets of his coat and drawing out a small, triangular box. “You get all annoyin’ when you’re flustered.” 

“What the fuck, man,” Tommy says, but he’s dutiful in catching the tiny package when Techno tosses it to him. “Oh, wait, this is that - this is that thing you had!”

Techno nods again, watching Tommy tear into the packaging with his face twisted in obvious if subdued rapture. “Amazon Prime works Christmas miracles, apparently.” 

“Yeahhh,” Tommy says, finally forcing the plastic out of the way. “Tangle,” he reads. “Tangle Jr.”

“Don't steal mine again,” Techno says. Tommy grins at him, and Techno smiles back at him before uncomfortably clearing his throat. “Okay, someone else talk.”

“I’ve got things,” Wilbur says instantly. “Unless you wanna go, Tommy?”

“Don’t really have anything to _‘go’_ with,” Tommy says with a blink. “I was told we weren’t doing gifts, but my mere existence is a gift that you should all treasure.”

Wilbur laughs, reaching for him like he’s going to pick him up and throw him. “Believe me - we aren’t.”

“Hey, don’t be a dick,” Phil reprimands. “It’s Christmas, innit?”

“Technically? No.”

“Cut me some slack here,” he says, leveling a glare at Techno’s smug (and much more comfortable) grin. 

“Don't,” Kristin says. “No slack for you.”

Phil throws his hands up. “Again, questioning why I invited you all over.”

“Okay,” Tommy says. “Well - I bought things for everyone, but _someone_ told me we weren't doing presents, so.”

“Don’t lie,” Techno says unharshly. Tommy flushes a furious red.

“Really, Tom, it's enough just having you around.” Wilbur throws an arm around his shoulders, and Tommy doesn't object to the haphazard, arguably drunk hug. “And you shouldn't be buying us shit, anyways. You're only sixteen.”

Tommy winces. “Don't remind me.” Wilbur only laughs and presses a sloppy and out of character kiss to the top of Tommy's head. “Oh, _gross_ ,” he says, writhing out of Wilbur's hold. “You really are drunk.”

“It's Christmas!” Wilbur giggles. “I'm allowed to be a bit excited.”

“A bit,” Techno mocks under his breath. Wilbur doesn't hear him, it seems, stumbling over to the tree to pull up the remaining gifts himself. Kristin is handed a bag (that looks suspiciously like it contains alcohol to Phil) and Tommy and Techno are given objectively large parcels.

“Tommy first,” Techno says, holding his box in his lap.

“Determined to make me feel bad, huh?” Tommy asks, shuffling the package closer as he toys with the taped ends. “The one time I think we agree on something. . .”

“Just open it,” Wilbur says impatiently.

Tommy blinks, taken aback. “Jeez, okay. Fine.”

“I know you said you didn’t want anything,” Wilbur says, careful and practiced over the tearing of paper, “but you mentioned it once and - well, I thought you might enjoy it.”

Tommy freezes, eyes wide as he stares down at the box in his hands. “Holy fucking shit, Will,” he breathes - and instead of plain disbelief he looks proper pissed. “What the fuck, man?”

Wilbur’s grin falters. “Did I - what?”

“This is -” Tommy struggles for words for a second, gaping like a fish, “- I can’t accept this. Not happening.” He pushes the half-opened package across the kitchen island. The _Nintendo Switch_ logo shines underneath the overhead lights.

“Wilbur,” Techno says, incredulous and barely warning.

“Oh, what the fuck!” Wilbur throws his hands up. “It’s not like it made a dent - we all know how much money I make.” 

The room is decidedly stunned. No one says a word, tension making a thin line between Tommy and Wilbur's equally steadfast forms. 

Wilbur sighs and shoves the package back across the marble. “It's for you,” he insists, “and if you really don't want it - not just because it's expensive, mind - you can go get yourself a refund and do whatever you want with the money.”

Tommy only shakes his head, shifting back away from the box. “No - Will, _no._ I'm not - just -” he tugs at his hair, drags his hands down his face. “ _Goddddd_.”

“Tom, come on. Am I not allowed to treat my little brother?”

“I'm not your brother,” Tommy says instantly.

“Might as well be - the internet thinks so, and I agree,” Wilbur snorts. “Just let me do something nice for you _once_ , man.”

Tommy glares at him for a few seconds - eye contact is a habit of his that Phil has only just started to realize - and begrudgingly snatches the box back up. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too,” Wilbur says, smiling like a madman. “Now, seriously - d’you like it?”

“It’s fuckin’ awesome,” Tommy mumbles, and the room breaks out of its uncomfortable silence. “I can’t - I dunno how I’m ever gonna repay you, man.”

“It’s a gift, idiot. You don’t _repay_ it.”

“Fuck you.” He stills and looks up from the wrapping paper. “No - _thank_ you. Actually. Just - thank you so much, Will.”

Wilbur's smile is crooked, but entirely, wholeheartedly genuine. “You're welcome, Tom.”

“What's it got on it?” Techno asks. 

Wilbur takes another sip of almost-gone wine. “Mario Kart. Figured we could play together.” 

“That's so sweet,” Kristin says. “No wonder Phil's all protective of you three.”

He can actually feel the flush creep up his neck as all three boys turn to look at him. “You’re so drunk, Kris,” he mutters half-heartedly. Techno's lip quirks in the faintest ghost of a grin. Wilbur giggles again, bubbly and enthused.

“Love you too, Dadza,” he chirps. 

“You're drunk, too.”

“Only off my ass, yeah. How long’d it take you to figure that one out?”

“Completely shitfaced,” Techno agrees. 

“Wish I could get shitfaced,” Tommy mutters. The four of them give a unanimous and long-resounding _NO_. “Kidding! Kidding.” 

“No alcohol until you’re thirty,” Wilbur says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“No drugs, either,” Phil says. 

“I do so many drugs already,” Tommy mutters, tearing finally into the cardboard and pulling out the packaging from around the console. “Wait - did you see that SwaggerSouls tweeted me?”

“Isn’t that the guy who wears the knight helmet?” Techno asks. 

“He smokes a lot of fuckin weed,” Tommy says with a cheeky grin.

“Australian,” Wilbur adds unhelpfully. “New rule - no talking to the Misfits until you’re forty.”

“Mhmm.” Tommy gnaws on his lip as he finally gets the thing itself out, cradling it in both hands like it’ll break if he touches it. “Can I get Animal Crossing on this?”

Wilbur blinks. “You want Animal Crossing?”

“Uh - yeah, actually, I do.” he squares his jaw and meets Wilbur's eyes. “Got a problem with that, big guy?”

“No! No,” he says, blinking away bleariness and throwing his hands up belatedly. “Just didn't think it was your style.”

Tommy hums, thumbing through the setup sequence. “Gonna buy it.”

“Treat yo’ self,” Wilbur says under his breath, before he straightens and claps his hands. “Right - who next?”

In less than ten minutes, Phil finds himself holding the most expensive bottle of alcohol that he's ever seen in his entire life. Techno watches from the couch as they pop it open, cradling the box to a new microphone to his chest. 

“You wanna taste?” Wilbur asks, holding up a half-full glass towards the living room. Techno shakes his head.

“Just because I _can_ doesn’t mean that I should,” he says. 

Wilbur shrugs, slipping the glass back onto the kitchen counter. “Offer’s still out there, if you change your mind.”

“Uhhhh-huh.” 

Silently, Tommy slides back off his stool and curls beside Techno on the couch. Techno flicks him once on the side of the head; Tommy scrunches up his face, not looking away from the switch still clutched in his lap. “Dickhead.”

“You got it workin’ yet?”

“Need to name it,” he mumbles. Techno pokes at him again. 

“What, your character?”

“Town,” Tommy says. “Mmm - Guy - Guyshire.”

“Guyshire sucks,” Wilbur says, blunt as he shimmies into the limited space between Tommy and the arm of the couch. Tommy scoffs and scoots into Techno, shuffling them all over into an unfortunately squished pile. He leers over Tommy’s shoulder, staring down at the screen. “Is “Guy” the theme? Is that what we’re going with?”

“Guyham,” Techno says unhelpfully. “New Guy.”

“Those are just two separate words,” Wilbur says.

“New Guyshire,” Tommy says. Techno and Wilbur both groan. 

“Manchester,” Techno suggests.

“Already a place, stupid.” 

“I see my input is unwanted,” Techno says, and in an instant, he’s tucking back into his phone. 

“Guychester?” Phil says as he settles into the loveseat, tugging Kristin down beside him and wrapping an arm around her waist. 

“Not bad,” Wilbur says. 

“Oh, _sure_ , Guychester’s not bad but Guyham is shit -”

“Guychesterham,” Tommy says, and the three of them break into a cacophony of bickering. 

“Awful, awful,” Wilbur says.

“I’ll make all of my villager’s anteaters,” Tommy shoots back.

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Wilbur amends. 

“Guychesterham,” Tommy says, clapping his hands together with childlike enthusiasm. “That's - that's perfect. Guychesterham.”

“Kinda a mouthful,” Techno says, not looking up from his phone.

“Shut up,” Tommy says. “God, you're so - you're such an American.”

“That -” he blinks, hesitating, “- has nothing to do with it.”

“That has everything to do with it,” Wilbur says. “ _New York. We’ll name our best city after those shitty Brits. New - New York._ Baah.” 

“Your accent sucks. And I had no say in that!”

“Just don’t be American, dickhead.”

Techno rolls his eyes, turning to Kristin and drawling a slow, monotone “Save me.”

Kristin laughs. “Were going down together, buddy.”

“These guys are dumb,” Tommy mumbles, staring down at the screen of the switch. “Look like - like dumb idiots.”

“Eh,” Wilbur says, twisting his hand in a so-so motion. “Mild, especially for you.”

“You rather I call them twats?” 

“No, actually. I’d rather you weren’t a complete demon of a child, for once -”

“I am _not_ a demon -”

“- Little, little _scoundrel_ of a boy, gremlin or goblin or whatever those folks say -”

“You are so, so mean to me -”

“He’s right,” Techno says, “he’s right, he’s right -”

“I’m being teamed up on -!”

He can’t help himself; the three of them tucked onto his couch, so preoccupied and looking undeniably familial, is one of the only photos he snaps during their visit. It’s also the only one he posts, blurring Techno’s face until he feels comfortable posting it, dropping it into Twitter with the caption _“Happy Holidays - the Sleepy Bois”_. Techno and Wilbur both snap up to look at him instantly at the notification, but neither of them seems very mad; he smiles toothily at the two of them and presses a quick kiss into Kristin’s temple. 

The world is perfect, he decides. And finally, _finally,_ Phil feels at peace.

* * *

Kristin shakes him awake.

“Phil,” she hisses, then louder, “Phil - somebody’s crying.”

Phil blinks, bleary, and grabs for Kristin’s hand on his forearm. “What?”

“Listen,” she says, and Phil does - it’s quiet for a few moments, and then there’s the sound of shuffling and a quiet, gasping sob.

“Shit,” Phil says. “What the fuck do I do?”

“Go see,” Kristin whispers. “Do you - do you want me to?”

Phil shakes his head. “I can take care of it,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as he kicks his comforter off. 

“Kids,” Kristin says, solemn. 

“Kids,” Phil agrees, and they both give a huffing laugh before Phil tiptoes out of the bedroom. 

The sound is even more obvious in the hall. He pads quietly across the carpets, passing the room that Wilbur was staying in, the bathroom - and there, outside Tommy’s room, is Techno.

“I was just about to text you,” he mouths. Phil pats him carefully on the shoulder - Techno rubs at his eyes beneath his glasses. 

“How long has he been crying?” Phil whispers. Techno shrugs, cringes, waves his hand in an ‘about’ way. 

“I think Wilbur’s still asleep,” Techno hisses (Phil thinks of an entire bottle of wine emptied and prays for Will's hangover), then shoots a pointed look at Tommy’s door. “Should - do we leave him?”

Phil follows his gaze, uncertain. Tommy, usually, is pretty good at asking for help - but if there’s one thing that Phil’s noticed over the past few days, it’s that Tommy is anything but usual. 

“You can go back to bed. I - I’ll talk to him.” 

Techno nods, unease lingering in the lines of his face. Phil pulls him into a one-armed hug, which Techno reciprocates, rubbing at his eyes again and straightening his glasses on his nose before he stumbles back down the hall. 

Phil sighs, wiping his hands on his pajama pants. This - this could be very bad. If he’s being honest, Phil’s sure that something’s been going on with the kid. He just didn’t think that his breaking point would come the night before he was set to go back home. 

And Phil - he’s not a father. He doesn’t have kids, and he doesn’t know if he ever will, and yet Tommy’s on the other side of that door and Wilbur and Techno are both just down the hall and there is something very defined and _very_ paternal lodged in between his lungs. He raises his hand to the door as if to knock and freezes there. He could do everything wrong. God knows he has before. Dadza this, Dadza that, Phil’s just Phil, and there’s a very real child on the other side of the door and Phil is a very fake father to a cacophony of teenagers on the internet. 

But he doesn’t get a choice, here. Another choked gasp resonates through the wood and he doesn’t even bother with knocking, pushing the door open silently and murmuring “Tommy?”

The breaths stop immediately. Phil panics a bit as he adjusts to the darkness - Tommy’s curled in on himself, arms pressed against his chest and knees pressed against them, as if trying to be as small as possible. 

“Oh, _Tommy,_ ” he whispers again, voice soaked in emotion. taking a step into the room and shutting the door behind him. He holds his hands out, resisting the urge to gather the kid into his arms. “Oh, mate - what’s wrong?” 

“I’m so-orry,” Tommy chokes, pressing far into the wall. His words are slurred, almost delirious, and Phil has the horrific thought that he might be drunk or high or - “Phil, I’m - you can -”

“It’s okay,” Phil says carefully, taking another few steps across the room. “You’re okay, you’re -” he scrambles for the right words, anything, “- I’m not mad at you, buddy.”

Tommy shakes his head, eyes shut and face wet. Phil takes a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to appear open. “Hey, Tom, you’re okay,” he whispers, and reaches a hand out to pat the teenager on the shoulder. Tommy practically melts into the touch, and, thank God, that’s something Phil knows how to do - he shuffles across the bed, wraps his arms around Tommy’s back and knees, pulls him close, and rests his chin on the top of the boy’s head. “It’s okay, bud. You’re okay.” 

Tommy keens, fisting one hand in Phil’s t-shirt. Phil cradles the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Phil murmurs. Tommy shakes his head with a long whine, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “Okay,” Phil says. “That’s okay. I’ve got you, mate. Promise.” 

It’s silent for a few minutes. Phil feels undeniably out of depth, but there’s not much he can do at this point; he buries his nose in Tommy’s hair, shifting him closer, and runs his hand up and down his calf in what he hopes is a comforting motion. When Tommy speaks, it’s muffled and wobbly. 

“I feel -” he swallows, and all of his syllables come a little bit stiffer, “- the world feels a-all big. And I feel really small,” he says quietly, like a confession, and Phil - God, he can’t even fathom how overwhelmed the kid must be, only sixteen with thousands of viewers and a full-time job and school - he holds him a little tighter and rocks them slowly back and forth. 

“That’s okay,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to feel small. The world's a scary place.”

Tommy shakes his head again. “Not - like that,” he sniffs, rubbing at his eyes. “Make fun of me.”

Phil’s heart swoops. “Who makes fun of you?”

“Wil-Wilby,” he says. “Wilbur. Sorry.” 

Something slots together in his mind. The nickname, the teasing, the weird reaction to the baby toys that Dream sent him. The webpages he’d scanned after Tommy had passed out on the couch, at first weird and irrelevant, seem to make a lot of this fit together in the right way. It hits him that Tommy isn't just overwhelmed. The terms and phrases all come back to him in a moment of undeniable intuition, panic-fueled and desperate but correct without a doubt.

“Tom,” he says softly, running a hand up and down Tommy’s spine, “are you little right now?”

Tommy freezes, going half rigid in his arms. “Don't freak out,” Phil says quickly. “You're safe, kiddo, I promise. I’m not gonna make fun of you. I just need to know.”

Tommy doesn't say anything, but something’s changed at the affirmation; Phil can feel it. His breaths even out slowly. The silence says a lot, but Phil doesn’t want to assume. Instead, he contents himself to holding on tight, rocking them gently back and forth before Tommy nods, so small that Phil almost misses it.

He's scared, Phil realizes. Of - of rejection, of pity, maybe - of Phil. Something squeezes painfully in his chest. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. So fucking stupid of him to dismiss it out of hand - what had he read? How - how does he _fix this?_

“Okay,” Phil says. “That's okay. Thank you for telling me, Bubba.” 

Tommy undeniably _melts_ at the pet name. One point for Phil - he'll take it. “Sorry,” he murmurs quietly, still trying to hold himself together, and no wonder his words had been slipping into one another - “don't wanna - don' wanna be a bother.”

“Not a bother,” Phil says, just as quiet. “Never a bother. Anything at all, Bub, that's what I'm here for.” He shuffles, clutching Tommy to his chest as he moves to lean against the wall. “Is - is this okay?” 

Tommy nods feverishly, sinking further into Phil’s arms. Contact - he can do contact, especially if it helps. It becomes increasingly apparent that this is not something that Tommy's parents are aware of. Phil can only assume that it's the pressures of streaming getting to him, the need for some sort of safe space growing as rapidly as his audience. Phil can only wonder just how long he’s been repressing it. 

Something snowballs in the pit of his stomach as he puts all the pieces together. Tommy’s been nothing but honest with him, for the most part - the baby jokes hadn’t made him upset, but had made him feel, well, more like the child they were teasing him for being. Phil feels like shit. Just how much worse has he made this? More importantly, how didn’t he realize earlier?

 _But you did, is the thing,_ something soft and forgiving in his head insists. _Tommy’s been off for at least a week now._

“Have you been little for the whole visit?” Phil asks as gently as possible. 

“Mhmmn.” Tommy nods pitifully and Phil rubs circles into his shoulder. “Tried not to,” he murmurs. The words sound all round and wobbly again like he's trying to keep from slipping.

“It’s okay,” Phil says. “You don’t have to try not to.”

Tommy shakes his head. “S’weird.” He blinks, tears brimming in his eyes. “Not - not normal.” 

Phil can’t help it - he gives a huff of a laugh and gathers Tommy closer in his arms. “Not laughing at you,” he promises. “You’re not weird, Bubba. Not weird at all. We’re just worried about you.” He swallows, choosing his next words carefully. “You're - you're the baby of the family, Tommy. We're all willing to take care of you.”

The effect is immediate. Tommy whines, a bit sleepier than he seemed even seconds ago. Phil sighs, something warm flowing into his chest as he presses a kiss to the top of Tommy’s head. He shivers and relaxes in Phil’s arms, tilting his head up to look at him, blue eyes lidded and hazed. He really does look young in this instance. Younger than he is. “You’re such a perfect boy,” he whispers unthinkingly, a bit hesitant, but Tommy makes a noise between a hum and a whimper again as his eyes slip shut contentedly. Phil brushes the hair back from his forehead. “My perfect boy. So small.” 

Tommy's face shifts as he trips further into the headspace. He shuts his eyes tight, frowning a little, and when he opens them he looks entirely calm, eyes hooded and drowsy. Phil could coo at him. The rock of paternal instinct and affection in his chest insists on the need to protect when Tommy stares up at him with only trust in his eyes, completely vulnerable for Phil alone to protect. _Mine_ , it rumbles, and Phil - maybe he is a father, in every way that matters. Any fear-fueled restraint leeches out of his body in one fell swoop.

Tommy shifts in his arms, keeping one arm pressed against his chest and wrapping the other around Phil’s torso, grabbing at the fabric of his shirt with fingers pressed between his back and the wall. He trembles, breaths coming cold against Phil’s collarbone. “You’re okay,” Phil soothes, pressing his face into the crown of the boy's head. “I gotcha, mate. Shh, shh, you’re alright.” 

In that moment, Phil realizes just how content he is. Tommy’s warm in his arms, a solid and constant presence that he can hold tight and comfort. And that’s what he’s doing, too - he can feel the tension bleed out of Tommy’s shoulders, his arms, his spine as Phil holds him. For once, he’s an honest protector, as close to a parent as he can get. He’s not sure that he’d have it any other way. 

“How about some sleep, hm? I think it's time for night-night,” Phil whispers. He feels a bit silly, if he’s being honest, but it dissolves when Tommy hums and buries his face in Phil’s neck, practically melting in his lap. 

He can't help but feel pure, whole. Tommy’s never been affectionate, exactly, and something sits right in his chest when Phil just holds him. His heart hurts thinking about how they got to this point - but right now, he’s focused on being as gentle and comforting as possible. Tommy, solid as he is, feels delicate in his lap. “Such a sweet boy. My little prince,” Phil coos, and oh boy, he's really whipping out all the stops. “So little - you just wanted someone to take care of you, huh, Bubba?”

Tommy nods, flush creeping back up his face. Phil rubs the space between his shoulder blades with one hand, using the other to pet his hair. “That’s what I’m here for,” he murmurs. He shifts them carefully until they’re lying down, Tommy still tucked tight against him, head resting right over his heart. “I've got you, I've got you. You must be tired - lots of excitement today for such a small boy.”

Tommy nods sleepily into his shirt, all of the tension melted out of his body. Phil runs his nails gently over the space between his shoulder blades as he tugs the blankets up and over his and Tommy’s closely wound forms. He goes back to fussing with Tommy’s hair, frowning slightly when Tommy’s thumb finds its way naturally into his mouth. 

“Keep your hands outta your mouth, mate,” Phil says quietly, reaching down over the side of the bed for the backpack he knows is strewn beside it. He digs through it one-handed for whatever he can find first; the toy elephant crinkles a little when he touches it, and he paws it out and pushes it gently into Tommy's clumsy hand. “Here - try that. Much better than your own thumb, I promise.”

Tommy doesn't answer, but his fingers tighten reflexively around the toy as he gathers it beneath his chin. He slips the very edge of it between his teeth after only a half second's hesitation and holds it there; a surprised slush spreads through Phil's chest as he debates the existence and present relevance of the pacifiers.

No time for that, though, when he's practically nodding off himself. Tommy's half-asleep in his arms - Phil presses a kiss to the crown of his head, murmurs something soft about _I love you_ and _my sweet, sweet boy,_ and passes out cradling the only dear thing left in the early-morning world.

* * *

When he wakes up, Tommy's eyes are focused on the rise and fall of Phil's chest.

Phil resists the urge to startle. Tommy's face is laid up close to his, one bony hand pressed gently against the center of Phil's chest. Phil's got an arm beneath Tommy's thin waist, the other thrown almost haphazardly across the boy's shoulders. 

He doesn’t move for a moment, blinking away his sleepiness and studying the curves of Tommy’s face. For what it’s worth, he looks more placid than he has for the entire week - his face is blissfully blank, lacking the telltale knit of his brow, the upset quirk of his lip. Phil can’t help but smile, glad that the kid has finally relaxed. 

Tommy blinks up at him, then, eyes lidded and content before he seems to realize Phil is awake - he startles, pulling his hand back from the spot over Phil’s heart and clutching it against his own chest. Phil feels just a tiny bit colder. 

“Hey, mate,” Phil says carefully, quietly. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Tommy squeaks, flushing a furious shade of crimson. “You - you look so stupid right now.”

Phil laughs. “Oi, fuck you, too.” He pushes gently at Tommy's shoulder, trying to pull his arm out from beneath the kid, and sits up. Tommy all but scrambles backwards, sitting cross-legged opposite Phil. “How are you feeling?”

Tommy only shrugs. 

“I'm gonna assume we're feeling better, then,” he says gently. Tommy somehow turns redder, eyes skittering away as he nods. “Hey - no need to be embarrassed, mate.”

“Fuck you,” he mumbles. “Everything about this is embarrassing.”

“Do you want it to be embarrassing?” Phil asks. “Because I really don't think it is, Tom.”

Tommy glares at him, jaw working beneath the thin, glued line of his lips. He's completely silent. Phil resists the urge to sigh and turns the words over in his mouth.

“It’s - age regression, right?” he asks cautiously. Tommy visibly pales. 

“It’s not a sex thing,” Tommy says quickly, squaring his jaw to hide his nerves. It’s a tick that Phil has become surprisingly attuned to. 

Phil laughs, a little bewildered. “I never said it was.” 

“I’m just -” he grapples with his words for a second, “- people usually assume.” 

“You’re sixteen,” Phil says, wrinkling his nose. “It’d be kinda fucked for me to just _assume._ ”

Tommy laughs, finally. “Fair enough, big man, fair enough.”

An unspoken question lingers in the air, creates the curve of apprehension in the line of Tommy’s mouth. 

“I looked it up after you passed out on the couch the other night,” Phil says. Tommy nods slowly. “I don’t, uh - I don’t really know a lot, but I’m willing to learn to help you.”

Tommy covers his face in his hands, flopping back on the bed. “Godddd,” he whines. “I fuckin’ hate this.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed!” Phil says. “You’re - it’s coping,” he decides. “You’re more than allowed to cope.”

“What the fuck do I have to cope for?” Tommy laughs, running his hand over his face. “I’m all - all rich and famous and shit. The people love me. I’ve only got a mute list on Twitter a meter long.” 

“There’s your answer,” Phil says. This, he can handle - numbers and stress management. “You’re only sixteen, and you average - what, two hundred thousand a stream?” Tommy quirks his lip, a slip of pride on his face. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s incredible, mate - lots to be proud of you for - but it’s a lot of stress to put on a kid still in college.” 

Tommy contemplates the mixed bag for a moment, eyebrows knit together. It's an expression Phil is familiar with, watching the cogs turn. 

“It’s so fuckin’ _weird,_ though,” Tommy says. He schools his voice higher, throwing his hands out. “ _Oh, look at me, I’m TommyInnit and I pretend to be a baby because I’m too famous and I think people hate me!_ ” 

“Only if you think of it that way,” Phil says earnestly. “And no-one hates you, Tommy.”

“Yes, they do,” Tommy says with such finality that Phil’s heart twinges. “And it’s definitely weird, and you - you,” and Tommy looks about ready to cry again, jaw tightened and eyes brimming with tears as they staring unseeingly at his hands. 

“Oh, _Tom,_ ” Phil sighs, taking Tommy’s face into his hands. Tommy swallows, looking anywhere but at Phil as he swipes his thumbs across the boy’s face. “It’s okay, Tommy. I promise. I wanted to help, last night - I still do.” 

Tommy exhales out of his nose, shoulders relaxing as he shuts his eyes and pushes his face into Phil’s hands. Phil keeps his cheeks cupped, rubbing his thumbs across his cheekbones, just beneath his eyelashes. _My sweet boy,_ he thinks. _My Tommy._

Tommy wraps his hands gently around Phil's wrists, keeping his eyes shut tight. When they open again, the blue of his iris is strikingly calm and completely, utterly susceptible. Vulnerable, perfectly so, for Phil and Phil alone to protect. Slipping, just barely. “Don’t tell anyone,” he mumbles.

Phil smiles gently at him. “Of course not. Techno, Wilbur, your parents - I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to.” 

Tommy nods slowly, relief blatant on his face. He pulls his head back from Phil's hands, but his grip lingers around Phil's wrists. “Phil,” he says seriously, “um. Thank you.”

Phil's heart feels light enough to float into the sky. “Anything at all,” he repeats. “But, uh - how about next time, instead of having a breakdown at three in the morning, we set some time aside for ourselves, hm?”

“You’re so fuckin’ weird,” Tommy says, paling. “There’s no _next time_ , Philza Minecraft, I just grow up and deal with my problems like a normal person.”

“But if there is?” Phil asks.

Tommy is positively red. He refuses to answer, eyes focused carefully in his lap. 

Phil sighs. “Look - Tom. If you ever, uh. . .” he trails off.

“Regress,” Tommy mumbles into his hoodie.

“Right - if you ever regress, or, or just need someone to be there for you, just - just gimme a call, mate. I'll always pick up.”

Tommy snorts. “You don't need to take care of me.”

“Of course I don't _need_ to,” Phil says. “Your folks are perfectly capable. But all of this - they don't know, and you wanna keep it that way - which is perfectly reasonable, by the way - I can. . . be there for you. I _want_ to be there for you.”

_Let me be there for you._

Tommy says nothing, still looking down at his hands. Phil sighs and wipes his face. “Just think about it, okay?”

And slowly, slowly, Tommy nods. 

* * *

They manage to get Techno to the airport without a hitch. It really is a miracle, considering Wilbur’s hangover (and outrageously loud complaining) and Tommy and Phil’s obvious lack of sleep. Kristin and Techno wind up the two most responsible of them, and they all stand in the airport terminal with Techno and his bags. 

“I literally pumped you with Advil,” Phil groans when Wilbur leans his weight into Phil’s shoulder. 

“I’m going to die,” Wilbur says again. 

“Good riddance,” Techno says flatly. 

“You’re so mean to me, Technoblade,” Wilbur says, and he goes to hang off of Techno’s arms instead, wrapping his arms tight around the shorter man’s shoulders. “I’m so very sad that you have to go.”

“This is absolutely too much physical contact for just one week,” Techno says a bit stiffly, but he winds up leaning into the hug anyway, patting gently at Wilbur’s back. “I’m just across the ocean, don’t worry.” 

“I always worry,” Wilbur says dimly, dragging his weight in Techno’s arms until Techno has to stumble backward to stay upright. “I’m going to throw up, I think.”

“Okay, too much,” Techno says, pushing Wilbur off of him. “Too much from you.” Wilbur gives a weird guffawing noise, stumbling back up to get his feet beneath him. Techno huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Anyone else before I officially close the offer?”

To Phil and Techno’s identical surprise, Kristin’s wrapping him up before Tommy or Phil can. The hug is short but clearly caring, Kristin pulling back and putting her hands on his shoulders with a wide grin. “Have a safe trip,” she says. 

Techno’s flushed pink when she pulls away. “Hyep,” he says, small, and then Tommy and Phil are both crashing into him.

“Tech-no-bladeee,” Tommy says, muffled into the man’s shoulder. Phil wraps his arms carefully around the three of them. “Good to see you, big man, good to see you.”

Techno doesn’t answer, but the arm he’s snaked around Phil’s waist tightens ever-so-slightly. Phil rests his forehead against Tommy’s bicep, breathing in the feeling of the two of them in his arms, the knowledge of Wilbur and Kristin with them. When they break apart, Tommy’s smile is blinding. 

“I’m glad you could come, even for just a little while,” Phil says, and Techno nods a few times, seeming almost dazed. 

“Me too,” he whispers. They all pretend not to notice when he scrubs at his face with the sleeve of his coat. “Yeah - good to see you all.”

Kristin sighs, all dramatic like, and Tommy, Techno, and Phil take the final stumbling steps backwards. “Back to being the only sane one around here.”

“You say that like I’m senile,” Phil mutters. Kristin grins at him smugly and stays stalwartly silent. “Oh, come on now.”

Wilbur only laughs at them. “How long till your flight?”

“Uhhhh - hour and a half, about,” Techno answers. “Should probably go through security -”

“Awesome,” Wilbur says, hooking him around the arm and dragging him towards one of the little stores within the airport. “No security, not yet - we’re buying more drugs. This headache is killer.” 

Techno laughs, voice receding into the distance as he reprimands Wilbur and the two stalk off into the shop. Tommy, Kristin, and Phil watch them go, standing guard of Techno’s bags in a short little line. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Kristin says after a second, patting Phil on the shoulder and picking a direction. “Be right back.” Phil shoots her a smile. 

Another beat and Tommy sighs, grabbing a suitcase and lugging it to the wall, taking a seat beside it on the floor. Phil follows suit, not really sure what else to do, grabbing Techno’s carry-on and the other bag he’s got and taking a seat beside Tommy. Almost subconsciously, Tommy leans into his side. Phil wraps an arm around his shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze. 

“He’s so hungover,” Tommy says, watching Wilbur stumble into Techno’s side. Phil laughs. 

“He drank a metric fuckton, mate. His own fault, really.” 

“You won’t let him drive, will you?” Tommy asks carefully. 

“Of course not,” Phil says. “If anything, I’ll just drive him home myself.”

Tommy nods, seemingly pleased with that answer, and pulls his phone from his pocket. It’s a few more moments of comfortable silence before Phil realizes the slight tremor that runs down the boy’s spine. 

“Are you cold?” Phil asks. Tommy blinks up at him, just a bit bleary, and shrugs. 

“Dunno why they’ve got no heat,” Tommy says. “Stupid as shit.”

Phil only hums his agreement as he tugs off his winter coat and drapes it carefully around Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he accepts the offering without any fuss, tugging it tighter around him and snuggling down into the fabric. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes as they wait for Wilbur and Techno; Phil watches them browse books and magazines, bickering absently back and forth as they get in the checkout line. The conversation doesn’t seem heated, just pleasantly intense as they pull different things off of shelves and toss them to one another. A small smile slips onto his face as he watches them. 

“Did you post last night?” Tommy asks then, flicking through his phone. “You didn’t tell me you posted last night.”

Phil laughs. “Thought you might bite my head off for it, mate.”

“I didn’t even realize, I’m so tired,” Tommy says with a frown. Phil waits for something more, but Tommy ultimately goes silent again as he goes back to tapping at his phone. About ten seconds later, his phone buzzes.

 **_TommyInnit Tweeted:  
_ ** _@Ph1LzA yes we are family the “Sleepy Boys” as you say Technoblade and Wilbur Soot are my brothers of course_

Phil looks over at him, blushing face half-hidden in Phil’s coat, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> thats a wrap! if you have any requests, feel free to leave them - no promises though c:


End file.
